


Undercover

by amukmuk



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Battle Couple, F/M, Mission Fic, Undercover, Undercover As Prostitute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29864478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amukmuk/pseuds/amukmuk
Summary: Bly hates when Aayla goes undercover. So what does she do? She invites him on a mission.
Relationships: CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura
Comments: 26
Kudos: 70





	1. The Plan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilhawkeye3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilhawkeye3/gifts).



> Reader warnings:  
> 1\. There is some mild cursing, if you think I need to bump up the rating, let me know :3  
> 2\. There are mentions of sex trafficking and prostitution when Aayla is describing the mission to Bly
> 
> I would like to give a HUGE shout out to Fractiouskat over on tumblr for basically alpha-ing this fic into existence.

Commander Bly and Jedi Knight Aayla Secura have just finished the docking procedures on their venator, _The Protector_ , when her comm chirps with a new notification. 

“Everything okay, General?” Bly asks when her brow crinkles. 

“We need to set a course for Coruscant,” she says, “I have been recalled to the temple.” 

He glances over at her as they exit the hangar. “Why?”

“It doesn’t say, just a request for my return.”

“That usually means a solo mission.”

She hums in agreement. 

Bly clenches his jaw. He doesn’t like when she goes on solo missions. He doesn’t like the idea of her going out somewhere and not having someone to watch her back— of not having _him_ to watch her back. 

“There is something on your mind,” she states. 

When they had first met, he had thought statements like these had been some sort of Jedi mind trick. Now, he’s pretty certain it is just her awareness of him and that thought leaves him with mixed feelings. 

“Do you think you’ll be placed under cover?” 

“More than likely.” 

He falls silent once more. She has always welcomed his opinion, but he doubts she wants to hear his criticism of the Jedi Order. The last time she was recalled to the temple for a ‘solo mission’, she was dangled in front of a slaver as bait and when she was captured they were given a temporary general who probably knew more about library logistics than war. 

“Bly,” she coaxes. 

He sighs. “The last time you went on a solo mission… It was awful.”

“Were you worried?” she prods, a playful smirk twisting her lips. They both know that she is perfectly capable of handling herself. Hell, she has saved his shebs more times than he cares to admit. That doesn’t stop his reply from tumbling from his lips, though. 

“Yes,” he says. “I was.” 

She stops walking and he halts by her side. “Why?”

That’s the million credit question, isn’t it? Why is he, a lowly clone, so worried about his _Jedi_ general? 

He doesn’t like to dwell on the answer. 

“When you go out alone, you don’t have anyone watching your back.”

She smiles. “Maybe I don’t want anyone, but you, watching my back.” 

His breath catches in his throat. He knows, he _knows_ that she just means that he is a loyal soldier— that they make an efficient team. But when she says things like this with that earnest gaze in her eyes, his heart runs off with the idea that maybe she means something else, something more. 

He’s not too proud to admit that he admires his general. It’s impossible to not. She’s amazing. She’s the most intelligent person he has ever met, she’s a fierce warrior, and, as if that isn’t enough, she’s gorgeous. Her soul is so pure and warm; she treats everyone with kindness and compassion and _that_ is what makes her beautiful. 

Like right now, with the way she is gazing up at him with those beautiful golden eyes. A little bit of dirt from their campaign is smeared on her angular cheekbone and he wonders, for just a moment, what it would be like to reach up and wipe it away for her-

“Commander you're needed on the bridge,” his commlink chirps from his wrist gauntlet. 

Bly tears his gaze away from hers. “I’ll be right there,” he says. 

“I’ll meet you there,” Aayla says, resting a hand on his bicep armor. “I’m going to freshen up first.” 

“Not a problem, sir,” he says and hurries down the hall. She has always touched him freely— a gentle hand on his shoulder, or a lending hand when she kicks his shebs _again_ in a sparring match— but now his palms sweat and his heart lurches in his chest. He shakes his head and flexes his hands, trying to rid himself of such useless nerves. There is no meaning behind her touches, no different than if she were a brother. 

On his way to the bridge, he steps off at the fresher just to splash water in his face and try and get himself in order. 

~

Bly sits in his quarters shoreside, filling out maintenance forms. Not much of _The Protector_ was damaged in their recent campaign, but it doesn’t hurt to have a tune up and let the boys stretch their legs. It has been a while since they have been on Coruscant, which means he will probably get a very irritated call from Fox regarding ‘rowdy’ men of the 327th who have been thrown in the drunk tank. 

If Fox removed the stick from his ass, he would see that they are just blowing off steam. Though, on the other hand, he at least has decency to call Bly instead of charging them with disorderly conduct. 

He can say a great many things about his brother, but he has a heart somewhere underneath the gruff façade. 

Someone knocks on his door. 

“It’s open!” Bly says and swipes to the next page of forms on his datapad. 

“Bly?” 

He spins around at the sound of his general’s voice and stands. “General, what can I do for you? Sorry I wasn’t expecting you so late.” 

She smiles softly. “It is quite alright. You already know I care not for the pomp and circumstance my title carries. I hope I’m not intruding?” 

“Never,” he says and offers the one chair for her and sits on his cot when she lowers herself into the chair. 

“I spoke to the council,” she states plainly. 

“Regarding your mission?” he prompts. 

She nods. “There is an arms dealer who has been selling Republic weapons, and information if I had to guess, to the Separatists. I have been chosen to run this mission, but I requested to take a partner for safety’s sake, citing what happened last time.”

He nods. 

“If it is not too much trouble, I’d like to ask you to be my partner for this mission-”

“It’s no trouble at all,” he interjects. “It is always an honor to serve next to you, sir.” 

She huffs a light laugh. “Are you sure? If you don’t come along, you get a week of shore leave.” 

He shrugs. “And babysit a bunch of drunks? I’ll pass.” 

Her smile turns more serious as returns to the topic of the mission. “It will be one week undercover, just you and me, no back up.” 

“I think we’ve handled worse.” 

Her smile returns. “Those were my thoughts as well. Meet me in the temple at first light. We’ll discuss further details then.”

“Yes, sir.” Bly stands when she does. 

“Bly?” She stops by the door. 

He arches an eyebrow. 

“Thank you.” 

“I, uh, of course. You’re welcome.” 

He watches her leave and sinks back on his bunk. 

He’ll have to put Cameron in charge, route all emergency comms to him, give Fox his contact information, set up a new chain of command. 

Hopefully they don’t burn down the barracks in a week. 

A week. 

He swallows. 

He’s going to be alone with Aayla for an entire week. It’s easy, of course, to keep everything professional on a bridge filled with men, but alone? Alone, she calls him by his name. Alone, she touches his arm. Alone, she gazes at him like his life means something. 

It makes him want to call her by _her_ name, to touch her arm, to show her how much she means to him. 

He shakes off those thoughts. This is a mission. She selected him for his loyalty and skill, nothing more. 

~

In the morning, before first light, he briefs Cameron and Lucky—the two temporary COs of the 327th legion— and makes his way to the Jedi Temple. He hadn’t bothered packing, there is nothing he owns that could possibly go with them. He is wearing his armor now simply because he has nothing else to wear and he may keep ‘forgetting’ to submit a request for new greys after their unfortunate loss of a venator a few months back. 

Greys—he is almost certain— are a cruel way for the Kaminoans to continue torturing them after they leave Kamino. Armor can be modified to fit a little better and blacks are tighter than Fox’s asshole, but greys? Nothing can be done about them. The last pair he had owned before the unfortunate passing of their venator, had ripped straight down the middle when he sat down. 

It had been mortifying. General Secura had gawked and the men practically hit the deck they were laughing so hard. 

It was by far one of his worst moments of his life. 

He climbs up the final few stairs to the temple and waves his gauntlet at the security system. In the olden days, sentinels used to stand guard, but with the war, every able-bodied Jedi has been sent off to the front lines. It flashes green, allowing him entrance, and he makes his way through the halls. He has been here exactly one time before and remembers vaguely where to go-

“Commander Bly,” he hears someone call from behind him. 

Bly turns and is instantly grateful for his bucket. General Vos is sauntering down the hall for him, a truly predatory smile twisting his lips. 

Bly grimaces further. 

He knows exactly what this will look like to Vos and he isn’t ready for the comments that are sure to follow. 

“General,” Bly grinds out. 

“Aayla was telling me that she selected you to be her partner for this mission.” 

Bly nods. “Yessir.” 

“Normally, she picks me.” 

A thousand retorts spring to his lips. Bly would just love to point out that the last time they went on a mission together, General Secura had gotten injured and Vos had just _left_ her. He knows Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachments, but one doesn’t just _leave_ a wounded Twi’lek in the worst part of a town. His grimace turns into a scowl at the thought of something happening to Aayla because of Vos’s carelessness. 

“I guess she thought me to be an appropriate fit for the mission, sir,” Bly answers curtly. 

Vos’s smile widens. “Or she wanted a week-long getaway with her commander.” 

He knew it. He knew that at some point Vos would make a snide comment like this. “Sir,” Bly forces himself to sound pleasant, “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I can assure you that it is not the case. General Secura’s relationship with me is purely professional. If she selected me for a mission, then it is purely for a tactical reason.” 

“Well,” Vos pats Bly’s shoulder— it makes him feel slimy and not at all warm and fuzzy like when General Secura does, “I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting, Commander. Do tell my padawan I said hello.” 

“Yessir,” Bly nods and continues on his way. 

He finds her apartment on the first try and when he knocks, she opens the door with a smile. 

“Bly,” she greets. 

He pulls off his helmet and returns her smile. “Sir.” 

“Come in, come in.” She steps aside and he is greeted by the warm spice of tea that seems to always permeate her quarters. “I have a fresh kettle of tea on the stove and scones, of course.” 

Of course. Once they both learned that he liked sweets, she made it her mission to have some for him whenever they were together in private. “Chocolate chip?” He asks. 

“Of course, I couldn’t _not_ get your favorite. Though I was tempted by the meiloorun ones,” she says. He walks into her small, galley kitchen where there is a box resting on the counter. He pours himself a cup of tea and grabs two scones. As he enters her living room, his breath is knocked out of his chest. 

He never gives much thought to what she is wearing— well, that’s not entirely true, he has spent countless hours trying to convince her to wear armor— but he is struck in this moment by how comfortable she looks. She is curled up on her couch, glaring at her datapad, wearing an oversized sweater that looks indescribably soft and even softer, fuzzy socks. Her lekku are still bound, and he would expect nothing less, but it’s the most comfortable he has seen her in a long time. 

He hands her one of the scones and she looks up. “Thank you.”

He nods and she flips her datapad around to show him. “Here are the schematics for the club. We’ll enter through the front like normal club-goers. The man we are looking for is named Yin Quesh and frequents this kind of establishment looking for Twi’leks to take home.”

Bly looks from the datapad and to her. “What are we doing _exactly_?” He doesn’t think he is a good fit for this mission if he is going to have to listen to his general bed a man for state secrets. 

She smirks and pats his knee armor. “Don’t worry, it won’t get that far. I can be _very_ persuasive.” 

Yeah, he knows. That’s why she _still_ doesn’t wear armor. 

“I’ll be going undercover as a prostitute. You’ll be my pimp.” 

Bly chokes on his tea. “ _What_?”

“Bly, it is the nature of places like this. My people are often sex slaves, unfortunately, it just is the way it is. I won’t be in danger. I’ll have you.” 

That’s right. That’s why she asked him to go. In a position such as this, of course she would want to have someone she trusts implicitly at her side. “Right. Apologies, general.”

She holds up her hand. “Please. At home, I’m just Aayla.” 

He nearly chokes again. He hardly even calls her by her first name in his _head_. 

“Yes, sir.” 

She arches a strong brow at him. 

“Yes, Aayla.” 

“Thank you. Anyway, Chardaan is mostly a planet of shipyards and traders.” She closes out of the bar schematics and shows him a picture of a shipyard. “We will dock the _Twilight_ here. I have also picked out a wardrobe for you, though you will need to try it on. I’m not certain what will fit.” 

He nods. “Show me to the closet, I guess.” 

She smirks. “I’m afraid it’s just a dusty old box.” 

“Then show me to the dusty old box.” 

She unfolds herself from her couch and crosses her living room and to the two boxes stacked in the corner. “Quinlan has done several undercover missions. These are some old pieces of his wardrobe.” 

Great. He gets Vos’s hand-me-downs. 

“I actually ran into him this morning,” Bly says. 

“Oh.” She stops rummaging to look at him. “You didn’t get lost, did you?” 

He shakes his head. “No, sir. I mean- no, I didn’t.”

She smiles and returns to searching. 

“He seemed a little disappointed that you didn’t pick him to go with you.” 

She hums noncommittally and stands. “Let’s start with these.” She hands him a stack of clothes. “You can use my refresher to change, it’s down the hall, first door on the right.” 

With a nod, he heads down the hall. He has only ever been in her living room, which is quaint but sparse. He knows that Jedi are supposed to have few material goods, which is why it surprises him to see so many oils, and candles and vials of different colored liquids resting on the counter and shelves above the toilet. He wants to pick up one and open it, but his respect for her wins over his own curiosity. 

He strips. It takes mere seconds to get out of his armor and body suit, but standing in his GAR-issued boxers and a stack of civvie clothes, he suddenly feels out of place. 

One would think he would have felt that way when he walked _into_ the temple, but something about standing in one’s underwear just really heightens the vulnerability. 

The pants are tight, black leather. He _barely_ gets them clasped shut and upon observing himself in the mirror, he notes that they are _almost_ as tight as his blacks, just flared a little around the ankle. 

The top puts his civilian awareness training to the test. He slips the first shirt easily enough over his head. It is long-sleeved and a light purple that he supposes looks okay. The other shirt, if he can even call it that, is a crop top. It is also black leather, sleeveless and hits him just under the rib cage— so maybe a leather chest plate of sorts? 

He has no idea. 

He exits the refresher and stands in front of her. “I have no idea if I have this on correctly.” 

Her eyes roam slowly up his body and stop on his face. “I don’t like it.” 

“Me neither.” 

“Okay, let’s try something else,” she rummages through the box and tosses another shirt at him. “Keep the pants, lets try this.” 

He nods and dutifully returns to the bathroom only to find that he hates this shirt even more. It can hardly be called a shirt with how _little_ it covers. It is blinding pink with billowing sleeves and a plunging neckline that nearly reaches his navel. It may as well be a nearly-see-through jacket. 

He exits the bathroom and chooses to look at his socks instead of meeting her eyes. 

“I didn’t know you had tattoos,” Aayla says. 

He looks up at his chest, not much is showing. There is much _, much_ more on his back and along his arms. They are swirling, gold, geometric patterns to honor those he has lost. “That won’t be an issue, will it?” he asks. 

She shakes her head. “No, I just didn’t know you had any. I mean,” she blushes, a faint purple hue rising to her cheeks. “Others apart from the ones on your face.” 

He shrugs his arms from the sleeves to show how the tattoos swirl down his right arm and across his shoulder. “They go down my back, too” He turns to show her his shoulder blades. 

“They’re beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” His skin begins to heat under her gaze. 

“Do they mean anything?” she asks. 

He turns back to face her and pulls the sleeves back up. “They tell stories of the losses we’ve taken so that I never forget them. I can’t tattoo every name and number, I’d run out of space. But I can remember that this swirl here,” he points to a large circle on his right chest muscle, “is the beginning— the first battle of Geonosis.” 

She smiles softly and whispers again, “They’re beautiful.” 

He can’t think of anything else to say in response to that. Should he apologize? Technically tattoos are against the regs, but she has never made a fuss about his face tattoos. Should he have included her in the grieving that accompanies these tattoos? He can feel a hot blush rising to his cheeks and he’s about to open his mouth to say kriff-knows-what when she speaks. 

“Let’s see what else is in this box. There has to be something that will work.” 

There is. There are a few items that they find that work for him. Roomier pants, for one, but also a few soft, but flashy shirts. She said that he needs to look wealthy because a successful pimp means that a lady is worth the money spent. 

He doesn’t like the idea, but it’s for the part. He just keeps telling himself it’s all for her safety. 

With his wardrobe carefully selected and packed Aayla grabs her bag by the door. “It is best that we don’t delay. The sooner we depart, the sooner we will be home and less men for you to fish from the drunk tank.” 

Bly laughs. “I like the way you think.” 

She smiles. “I know.” 

  
  



	2. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some cursing and mentioning of prostitution activities ahead.

The flight to Chardaan is uneventful. They take the  _ Twilight _ , Anakin’s infamous bucket of bolts and within six hours, they arrive at their destination. They dock at one of the shoreside space ports and give their fake names—Na’tina and Keyan. 

“I’m going to change,” Aayla announces as she stands from the pilot’s seat. He had offered to fly, but she chose to do so instead—probably to keep her mind occupied, if he had to guess. When she doesn’t have time to meditate, she throws herself into mundane daily actions, like flying. She once scrubbed the entire medbay when he had been injured, much to Indy’s dismay. Indy had told him that he didn’t want to ban the General from the medbay, but he would, citing that he had never felt more lost in his own home. 

Rising from his chair, Bly moves into his quarters and changes into his pimp costume. The pants are a slim cut that hug his thighs and calves, but tuck nicely into the boots he was provided. The shirt is vibrant orange with a modest v-neck and the jacket is gold with a matching orange ribbing around the neck. Over all, it isn’t an  _ awful _ look. He is used to wearing gold. 

He exits his quarters and is greeted by Aayla only to nearly trip at the sight of her. He thought her battle clothes were revealing—this is so much worse. What little fabric there is, clings to her every curve. She is adorned in jewels and wears a golden collar around her neck. 

He finds his voice. “That… won’t hurt you will it?” He asks. 

“Only if you press the button,” she says and hands him the remote. 

He tucks it into his inside jacket pocket with great care. 

“Can you also hold this for me? I don’t have any pockets.” She hands him her lightsaber. 

He hesitates. 

This is her weapon, her life. Sure, she can trust him not to zap her, but to protect her most prized possession? 

He grips the handle. “Yessir,” he wheezes. 

“You look nervous,” she says calmly. 

“I am,” he confesses. 

She places a gentle hand on his shoulder and his heart lurches from his stomach and back into his chest. “We have nothing to fear, not when we are together.”  
“I know,” he nods and places his hand over hers. “I know.” 

“Then come on, I want to scope out the place before it gets busy.” 

~

The club is seedy, that much is for certain. The floors and walls are plain duracrete, but are colored by the multi-colored strobe lights coming from the dance floor. Bly is not a fan. He doesn’t like how the room is plunged sporadically into darkness only for some vibrant color to light his way. It is disorienting and, combined with the music, he can feel a migraine slowly forming behind his eyes. 

Aayla sidles up to him and leans over the bar. “Two spotchkas, please.” She smiles at the bartender, who looks to Bly for approval. Bly nods his assent. “I hope you can handle your liquor,” she purrs, just loud enough to be over the music, but quiet enough that only he can hear. 

He scoffs. “You don’t have to worry about me.” He only just manages to swallow the use of her title before it escapes between his lips. 

She arches an eyebrow at him. 

“You know as well as I do about Lucky’s habits. He isn’t in the bathroom for ages because he’s taking a Coruscant-shattering shit.” 

She laughs, a true and beautiful sound that makes his stomach flip. “I thought that perhaps his lengthiness leaned more towards other necessities that couldn’t be met elsewhere safely and privately.” 

Bly blushes. The bathrooms are definitely a place to go in a pinch. The door leading in locks and any other brother might just assume that it is down for maintenance, thus providing some very rare privacy. 

Less bashful brothers just polish their blasters in the barracks. 

The bartender serves their drinks to them. Aayla picks up her glass and tips it to Bly. “To success.” 

“To success,” he says and takes a sip. It definitely doesn’t burn as much as Lucky’s home brew. “Any luck?” he questions, keeping his lips against the glass. 

She leans closer, pressing her body against his shoulder and whispers in his ear, “No. Most of the men say that he comes around in two days time. I’d like to stay for another hour and if he doesn’t show we can leave.” 

He nods. This is too much. She is pressed to close. Just moving his head up and down, he can feel the stubble of his facial hair pulling across her skin. He can smell the scent of her cheap perfume. He can feel her coolness radiating through his clothes. 

She steps away. He sucks in a breath, almost certain that he had been drowning just a moment ago. 

She opens her mouth like she is going to ask him something when a man comes up and grabs her ass. “How much for a ride?” he growls, nuzzling her neck. 

Bly rockets from his stool and injects himself between them. “You can’t afford her,” he says, remembering himself. 

“What do you know about how much money I have?”

Bly hesitates, what  _ does  _ he know? He doesn’t know anything about prostitution, or the price of it, but he does know that this guy  _ can’t _ afford Aayla. 

She’s priceless, irreplaceable, worthy of so much more than being asked for a ride in a dive like this. 

Aayla laughs and grabs Bly’s arm. “By the look of your shoes, sweetie, you couldn’t even afford to twirl me around the dance floor.” 

The man tries to object but Bly interrupts him, “Get lost.”

They watch him disappear into the crowd of people and Aayla looks up at him. “I change my mind. Let’s leave now.” 

“Copy that,” he says and lets himself take her arm and lead her out. He tells himself that it is to look the part, but really he just wants the physical reassurance that she is okay. 

When they exit the club, he nearly sighs in relief. The atmosphere is quieter and cooler. While the air smells faintly of exhaust from the neighboring shipyards and he is grateful for the silence of this time of night. 

Next to him, Aayla shivers. 

“Are you alright?” He asks. 

She nods, “Yes, thank you.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” 

She shakes her head in the negative. “No.” 

She shivers again. 

Bly doesn’t have his bucket on so he’s not entirely certain what the temperature is, but he shrugs off his jacket without a moment’s hesitation. “Here,” he says, handing it to her. 

“Oh I couldn’t,” she protests. 

“Sir, respectfully, you’re hardly wearing anything and I know you run cold, I’ll be okay.” 

She smiles. “Thank you, Bly.” 

“Anytime,” he says. 

~

Back on the  _ Twilight _ , Bly is reclined in the co-pilot chair, his feet propped up on the dash, reading a report from Fox regarding the ‘incompetence’ of his temporary command. Bly chews on the tip of his stylus, thinking of a creative way to tell him off, when Aayla enters. 

“I made tea,” she says by way of greeting. 

He looks over his shoulder at her. Good, she looks much more comfortable now. All of her prostitute make-up has been washed off and she wears a soft tunic and pants. He accepts the mug of tea. “Thank you.” 

She smiles and sits next to him in the pilot’s chair. “Anything interesting?”

“Commander Fox is just complaining, nothing new.” 

Her smile falters as she tucks her feet up underneath of her. “I never thought I would miss my combat boots, but I fear I have grown rather attached to them.” 

He takes a sip of his tea. “I know the feeling. I miss my armor.” 

She rubs the souls of her socked feet with her slender thumbs. “Heels are woefully uncomfortable and utterly impractical. My feet are killing me. Women who can stand wearing these for days on end are tougher than I could ever hope to be.” 

He doubts that. Setting his cup of tea up on the dash, he swivels towards her. “Slide ‘em over.” 

She blinks before unraveling herself and setting her feet in his lap. “You deserve a medal of honor.”

“You just got out of the ‘fresher, this is hardly a medal-worthy act.” 

Her laugh trails off into a sigh as he digs his thumb into the arch of her foot. “Are you saying you would still rub my feet if I hadn’t bathed?”

“I would, but just know I would expect my medal by the end of the week.” 

She laughs again and leans back. “You are amazing.” 

His lungs stop working and he moves to her other foot. Her face is smooth with contentment and her delicate, pink lips are parted ever so slightly. “Hardly. We all used to give each other various rub-downs. Growing pains were a mutual sort of misery.” 

She sighs and relaxes further, reclining in the pilot’s chair. “I’m sorry. I wish I could take all of your pain away.” 

He shrugs. “Pain is what makes us who we are today. I wouldn’t change anything, not really.”

Any small change could have had him as a clone within the 212th or 501st—Bly shudders at the thought. He loves serving in his corps. He has a good group of men and a phenomenal general. There isn’t a thing he would change. 

“I would change one thing,” she murmurs, her words almost slurring together. Her head has lolled over the side and her eyes have fluttered shut. A few more minutes and she will be fast asleep. 

“What’s that?” 

“I would have learned about this secret talent earlier so you could rub my shoulders. They always hurt so bad after campaigns.” 

“Just say the word and I’ll be there.” 

“I know,” she murmurs. “I know.” 

~

The next day at the club proves to be as fruitless as the first. Aayla dances with several people, flirts with several more and yet, they are no closer to finding this guy than they were when they landed. 

Bly just hopes that their intel is good— it’s not often that intel is good, anyway. Unfortunately, for the Republic, ‘intel’ is very much an oxymoron. 

They step back into the Twilight and Aayla immediately starts stripping off her jewelry. “I’m sorry, do you mind if I use the fresher first again tonight?” she questions, as she struggles with the clasp of the collar. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t mind. Do you need help?” 

She huffs with frustration, but turns around baring the back of her neck to him. “Thank you. I feel like I need to rinse off the grime of that place. Everything about it is so dark. I can feel everyone’s intentions within the force. It makes me sick.” 

Bly doesn’t think that having a connection to the Force is necessary to feel the intentions of everyone in that hole in the wall. Just watching how people leered at her, or how they groped her without her consent was enough to make his stomach churn. 

Bly undoes the clasp. “Me too. I’m sorry that you have to do this.” 

She sighs. “Unfortunately it just is the way it is. After I get clean, I think I may meditate. Would you like to join me?” 

“I don’t know,” he hedges. He has stood vigil while she has meditated in the field before—he isn’t a fan of how vulnerable she looks while doing so—but he has never actually participated in the act. 

“It would be nice. You’re always such a steady presence in the Force, almost like an anchor.” 

He doesn’t need her to say the words, in order to hear them. She needs an anchor. Feeling all the darkness has clearly taken a toll on her and he’s here, he can help. 

“I’ll join you after I freshen up, too,” he offers and is rewarded with one of her breathtaking smiles. 

~

They sit next across from each other in the cockpit, the roomiest place in the ship. Aayla is wearing her same soft tunic and socks once more, her lekku still bound in her familiar leathers. Bly wears his sleep clothes, though he feels entirely naked in them, sitting so close to her.

She scoots closer so that her knees are pressed against his. “Give me your hands.” 

He does without hesitation. He is struck, suddenly, by how much he trusts her. He, of course, knew that he at least trusted her a _ little _ bit, otherwise he wouldn’t follow her so fearlessly into battle. It feels different to trust her in such an intimate setting. There are no shells exploding around them, no cries of dying men. Just silence and their points of contact. 

“Take a deep breath in through your nose,” she commands, inhaling. “And exhale. Through your mouth or nose, it doesn’t matter.” 

He chooses his nose. He brushed his teeth before he got in the shower, but he isn’t going to risk sewer breath with her this close to him. He does enough embarrassing things around her already. 

“Close your eyes.”

He does. 

“Clear your mind.” 

He… tries. It’s so hard. Every time he  _ thinks _ he is getting close to not having any thoughts he realizes that he is thinking of not thinking and that turns into actively trying to clear his mind and focusing too much on the absence of thought—

“Bly.” Her voice is smooth and he opens his eyes. Hers are still closed and she rubs her thumbs across the tops of his hands. “Relax.”

“I’m trying, sir.” 

“Just Aayla.” 

“I’m trying, just Aayla,” he mutters and closes his eyes again. 

She huffs a laugh and squeezes his hands. “Repeat after me: I am one with the Force.” 

He does as she asks. 

“And the Force is with me.” 

He repeats the second half of the mantra. 

“Focus on the words, any thought that comes to your head, just pop it like a bubble.” 

He hums in acknowledgement. 

“Now say them with me, breathe and focus on the words: I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.” 

He does. It isn’t easy at first, the more he repeats the words, the more they sound like arbitrary sounds. His mind focuses on the lilt of her accent, dancing on each syllable and eventually he finds a rhythm in repeating the words with her— almost like going for a run. He can almost see a path in front of him, green and vibrant, and relaxation seeps into his bones, like it does after a run. With each steady breath he can feel himself feel more and more at peace. 

“Bly,” she coos and he blinks open his eyes, only a little agitated by the bright lights of the cockpit. 

“Did I do okay?” He asks. 

She smiles and nods. “You started falling asleep.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” 

She holds up a hand. “Don’t apologize, it’s an honor.” 

He arches an eyebrow. 

“It is an honor to see you so relaxed, and so willing to sleep.” 

“I was supposed to be doing that for you,” he grumbles, squeezing the back of his neck. 

She chuckles. “You did. I'm definitely relaxed enough to sleep, now. Are you?” 

He nods. “I could sleep.” 

She stands, offering him a hand. “Then let’s go to bed.” 

~

“He’s here,” Aayla whispers and presses against Bly’s thigh. 

Bly scans the crowd behind her carefully. Upon spotting their target he whispers back to her, just loud enough to be heard over the music, “Which plan do you want to use?” 

They had talked about it, of course, before getting to this point. There were two options, letting him approach her, or Bly offering her to him. Bly doesn’t care so much for the second option he doesn’t want to be complicit in Aayla possibly getting groped. 

She picks the second option and easily finds someone to dance with on the club floor. Bly grimaces. He isn’t an excellent liar, but as the man slowly saunters up to the bar, Bly tries to summon his inner sleemo. 

If he even has one deep,  _ deep _ inside somewhere. 

“Two doubles, spotchka,” the man orders, slipping into the vacant seat that Aayla had just occupied. 

“Tough night?” Bly asks the target, as if he might have been a brother. He isn’t, but Bly is  _ trying _ not to claw out of his own skin with discomfort. 

The man nods. “My woman left me. Said she don’t wanna be a bounty hunter’s woman no more.” 

Bly nods, trying his hardest to commiserate. “Two more doubles, for my friend and I,” he flags down the bartender. 

Quesh turns to him and arches an eyebrow. He is a skinny Duros man, his skin closer to green than blue. “Friend?” he asks. 

Bly nods. “I think I may have a solution to your problem tonight, but it is only an offer I make for my friends.” 

The duros leans forward. “And what kind of offer is that?” 

Bly nods out to the dance floor. “See that Twi’lek out there? That’s my best girl, but she’s a little… wild,” he nearly chokes on his own words. “I’ll give her to you for free tonight, since your lady left you, if you promise to really… break her in.” Fuck, he needs to take a shower. He wants to crawl out of his stupid wardrobe, grab Aayla and fucking make a break for it. 

“Break her in?” he questions. 

Bly nods. “I’d do it, but it’s bad for business.” 

He grins. “You have yourself, a deal, partner.” 

Maybe sensing the deal’s completion in the Force, or maybe just having impeccable timing, Aayla bounces up, chest heaving from dancing. “Keeyan, baby, can I have a drink, pretty please?” 

Flagging down the bartender, Bly taps his own glass and hands the fresh drink to Aayla. “Na’tina, this is...” Bly trails off, knowing well enough that Quesh hasn’t introduced himself yet, even if Bly has entire file memorized. 

“Quesh, Yin Quesh,” he answers and extends a green hand to Aayla. 

She accepts and smiles broadly. “Such a pleasure to meet you. Are you a  _ friend  _ of Keeyan’s?”

“I am,” he says. 

“Would you like to dance?” she purrs, stirring something carnal and protective in Bly’s gut. 

Quesh looks to Bly and he nods. Their deal has been made and Aayla is about to milk him for all he is worth. Then he will be arrested. Then they will be home before they know it. 

Thank the stars, he doesn’t know how much longer he can play pretend like this. He should feel grateful that Aayla thinks he is capable of doing such work, but he really isn’t and he sort of hopes she doesn’t ask him again. He glances out onto the dance floor and tries not to grimace. She is really laying it on him, twisting her body around him that makes Bly grateful he is standing over here. He would be falling on his knees right about now, if he were Quesh, begging her to let him worship her in every way he could imagine. 

But he doesn’t think sleemos like Quesh are able to appreciate Aayla for all that she is.

He watches her dance for a moment longer before a shadow catches his eye right before the dance floor plunges back into darkness. Bly leaps off his barstool. Everything happens so fast. 

People on the dance floor start screaming and stampede towards Bly. The emergency lights flick on, illuminating everything in an ominous red glow. He shoves through the crowd. A blaster shot rings out. His heart plummets to his stomach and he prepares himself for the worse. He is going to find Aayla with a blaster bolt through her back. He has failed her. She is—

She is held up against Quesh. 

And Quesh has a blaster pressed to her temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliff hanger! I'll try and have the next chap up by next Friday! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 I'm going to try and update weekly! <3


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